While we were engaged in small talk, the clones managed to establish fire contact with widely scattered groups of droids. The map clearly showed how, with the support of gunboats, more than fifteen infantry regiments, together with a hundred tanks, were steamrolling through the Separatists' positions without encountering any significant resistance.
Well, yes — the merchants came to attack and crush, bringing in an army of almost half a million, without preparing any defensive positions, of course, and without deploying anti-aircraft guns, either hoping for their orbital group or simply not thinking of it. And when the pinch came, it turned out to be too late to budge. Most likely, the living Neimoidian commander had hastily staged a tactical retreat, basically just running away and leaving the iron monsters under the command of droid officers. This led to sad results.
After the attack, there were practically no heavy droids left in the sky, and those that remained were finished off by gunboats and fighters with missiles. If anyone tried to take command, it went unnoticed, and there was no point in talking about the independence or tactical genius of the B-1.
For the first four hours, the machines still put up some resistance, simply due to their numbers, but even then, we crushed any major pockets almost immediately with air strikes. Then the tin cans began to run out of battery power, and that was the end of it. Although, it must be admitted, if the Confederate army had not been so densely packed — if the droids had at least been able to take cover during shelling and react to changes in the situation, rather than like Windows 11 trying to run on a fourth-generation Pentium — the operation could have dragged on for several weeks. By the way, jokes aside about Windows, during those three days of fighting I became quite convinced that the software for most of the Separatist droids was written by ideological followers of Microsoft, with the slogan: "Your resources will never be enough!" Because even an antediluvian mechanical calculator thinks faster than some of these droids, as I saw with my own eyes.
"Well, well." Commander Rinaun turned away from the tactical map, where we had been coordinating our troops all this time. "We have helped you, but our units are needed elsewhere in the sector. I can't allocate any additional forces to you. The only thing I can do is send you a few Pelta-class frigates — brand new ships that have only recently left the shipyard. True, their combat value is low, but…"
Here we go again. Pushing blatant junk on us. Of course, the Pelta is a new design with good ergonomics, but its armament and armor are weak, and its carrying capacity is disappointing — just over six hundred tons. As far as I remember, they were mainly used as medical ships and cargo transports. Oh well, any old tub will do for us.
"Fine. Send them over. I'll figure out where to put them. But I'll keep my light cruiser, right?"
"Yes, since it was originally under your command. But the rest will fly back."
Apparently, the Separatists are putting a lot of pressure on us, otherwise we wouldn't be so nervous about every ship.
"I understand. In that case, please accept my gratitude, Commander. I will be glad to see you anytime and hope to continue our acquaintance."
"Me too, General," the man nodded. "Captain," another nod to Ragnos. "Now, please excuse me. I have to get the soldiers loaded."
Saluting, the commander took his leave and returned to his flagship. Fortunately, we had already exchanged contact information, and I could hope that he would fulfill his promise to help with materials on fleet management.
I, on the other hand, had a headache ahead of me in the form of deploying a full-fledged base, arranging the clones' daily routine (eating and sleeping), collecting and putting new trophies into service, and other minor but no less important details. And I also had to worry about reprogramming the combat droids, modernizing equipment… And it was time to do one important thing.
Four hours later, when Rinaun's squadron ships made the hyperspace jump, the promised light cruisers arrived on the planet with a cargo of building materials and food, as well as a medical frigate of the same type, the Pelta. After quickly unloading the ships and transferring some of the most seriously wounded from the Marat to the medical frigate, I sent the ships back.
Looking at the setting sun, I decided the moment for my plan had come.
I contacted the clone engineer via comlink and made sure my order had been carried out. Then I gave a new one:
"Commander Blam, assemble the legion. The location is the clearing three hundred meters from the south gate. But don't forget about security. And assign me a company of fighters — I have a task for them."
"Combat, sir?" the commander inquired.
"No, but let them take their weapons."
As soon as the general commotion began, Ahsoka was right there.
"Teacher, what's going on?"
"Patience, my young Padawan," I said, not about to tell her anything before it was time.
"Grrr," I clearly heard the Togruta growl. "I'm not a little kid!"
"You want to ruin the surprise," I remarked tactfully.
"So what?"
"Hmm." I pretended to think. "I'm not sure I can repeat Master Yoda's exact words," and I'm not sure he ever said that, but… you don't need to know that, heh-heh. "So… 'Age is determined by the ability to be patient, mmm…'"
"Teacher!"
***
Neat rows company-sized boxes of clone infantrymen, technical crews, engineers, and repairmen, as well as ship crew members not on watch, were lined up on a large field — one side abutted the base wall, the other the jungle. In the latter, we had dug a small pit and set up a makeshift podium, on which I, Ahsoka, and the regimental commanders stood.
After giving a signal via the comlink built into my armor, I turned my head to the left and, a few seconds later, saw gravplatforms slowly drive onto the field, accompanied by a company of soldiers marching in step and holding their weapons at the ready. On the platforms lay the bodies of the fallen clones — both ours and those who had come to our aid with the squadron. The most difficult part was with the latter; we immediately carried our own from their positions to a makeshift morgue, but Rinaun's troops had to be gathered from all over the battlefield.
Looking over the ranks of silent soldiers, I stepped forward, activating the transmitter already tuned to the general frequency so that all personnel, including those on duty, could hear my words. The speech, prepared and memorized in advance, had somehow evaporated. Like anything else, public speaking must be learned, and this was my first experience. It would be completely unacceptable to embarrass myself in such a matter. Therefore, I had to say what I truly thought.
"General Mikore Vikt is speaking…" I paused briefly, feeling through the Force how tens of thousands of intelligent beings focused their attention on me. The feeling, I must say, was amazing… It sent shivers down my spine. "Today we say goodbye to our brothers and friends. They died doing their duty — in battle with those who bring ruin and devastation to the Galaxy! Fighting for the peace and safety of the Galaxy's inhabitants! It is a worthy death, worthy of the true warriors that you are! They accepted death with honor, and so we must live with honor, not disgracing the names of our comrades. And now, I declare a minute of silence! Say goodbye in your minds to those who have left us. Remember them! And may their new path in the Force be easy…"
Silence fell over the field, and the pressure of others' attention and emotions gradually subsided. Perhaps it wasn't the best farewell speech, most likely not, but… these words reflected what I was thinking. Although I had never given a speech like this before, now I was sure.
Why was all this necessary? Hard to say… Well, except that the men really needed to be buried in a humane way, simply because it was right. Many of them had died before my eyes, and what's more, I had felt their deaths in the Force.
And in all honesty, I needed it no less than the clones did.
The story I knew about Order 66 and the clones who carried it out seemed rather ambiguous. On the one hand, it seemed the clones were simply following orders, as good soldiers should. They were created for war, lived for war, and knew nothing but war, so the concepts of "subordination" and "following orders" were almost the basis of their existence — difficult for a civilian to understand, but natural to any soldier.
In addition, the Jedi themselves treated them as "meat droids" and expendable material, which naturally did not inspire good feelings on the part of the clones. Many of them welcomed Order 66 with grim satisfaction. According to the same version, in places where Jedi commanders treated their subordinates humanely, the clones often sabotaged Order 66, allowing the gifted to escape. On the other hand, I clearly remember an episode revealing that each clone, even at the time of creation, had a special biochip implanted in their brain, forcing them to carry out "Order 66" regardless of personal feelings. It's unclear what to believe: either there were no Jedi who were let go, or there were no biochips, or the effect of these biochips was not absolute.
In general, think what you will. In such conditions, it is wiser to assume the worst. But… does that mean I have to behave like a jerk who doesn't care about his fighters and doesn't consider them fully intelligent? Whether it helps or not, we'll see — but having the opportunity and not doing it would be pure idiocy.
Meanwhile, the minute of silence came to an end, and the pre-instructed honor guard company, obeying my nod, began to lay the bodies in a mass grave.
Soon all the bodies were in the pit, and the company lined up for a farewell salute.
"I am proud to command soldiers like you! May those who died in battle rest in peace."
With another wave of my hand, the company of clones raised their barrels in unison and fired three rounds into the greenish-blue evening sky, where the first stars were already beginning to appear.
Next came the burial. The mass grave was covered, and a metal monument was erected above it. It was simple and not too large — a four-sided stele three meters high, at the base of which lay the bullet-riddled helmet of one of the clones, framed by a "wreath" of welded blasters. On the sides, small pillars held polished metal plates engraved with the numbers of the fallen clones. Not all of them were from the Thirteenth, but we tried to note that as well.
"And now, I want to revive an old tradition from the days when wars raged across the Galaxy!" I drew attention to myself again. And I must admit, it was very difficult to control myself and force myself to speak — the emotions of tens of thousands of listening clones generated not mere ripples in the Force around me, but a real storm, the gusts of which, although not overwhelming, were powerful in their intensity. "I present you with these battle banners as a sign of your valor — the sign of our Thirteenth Legion!"
Several dozen T-shaped standards, until now hidden from prying eyes on the gravplatforms, soared into the air. I had thought long and hard about what symbol to choose for my legion. In the end, after straining my memory in meditation, I managed to come up with what I thought was a pretty good option. The black cloth bore a slightly modified version of the Revan Empire's coat of arms, with a plaque bearing the Roman numeral XIII in the center.
Why Revan? I don't know myself. The idea may have been risky, but now no one remembers the symbolism of that war anyway. After all, almost four thousand years have passed — and the coat of arms is beautiful. And it has an inner meaning.
As for the color… well, the only fabric we had in abundance was black stretch tents. It wouldn't have been wise to cut the rest for banners, and we only had white and red paint, while other colors were extremely hard to come by. So, what we got was what we got.
Raising my hand in a military salute, I silently watched as thousands of clones saluted in unison, their hands raised to their helmets.